"My name's Julia Tinker," answered the maid, who had rather a
disappointing face.
"Well," said the contributor, "your father's got back from his Hong-Kong
voyage."
"Hong-Kong voyage?" echoed the girl, with a stare of helpless inquiry,
but no other visible emotion.
"Yes. He had never heard of your mother's death. He came home yesterday
morning, and was looking for you all day."
Julia Tinker remained open-mouthed but mute; and the other was puzzled
at the want of feeling shown, which he could not account for even as a
national trait. "Perhaps there's some mistake," he said.
"There must be," answered Julia: "my father hasn't been to sea for a
good many years. _My_ father," she added, with a diffidence
indescribably mingled with a sense of distinction,--"_my_ father 's in
State's Prison. What kind of looking man was this?"
The contributor mechanically described him.
Julia Tinker broke into a loud, hoarse laugh. "Yes, it's him, sure
enough." And then, as if the joke were too good to keep: "Mis' Hapford,
Mis' Hapford, father's got out. Do come here!" she called into a back
room.
When Mrs. Hapford appeared, Julia fell back, and, having deftly caught a
fly on the doorpost, occupied herself in plucking it to pieces, while
she listened to the conversation of the others.
"It's all true enough," said Mrs. Hapford, when the writer had recounted
the moving story of Jonathan Tinker, "so far as the death of his wife
and baby goes.
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